


Met By Happenstance

by jennthejerk



Series: Hamilton x Reader Fan Fics [19]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Turn (TV 2014), Turn: Washington's Spies
Genre: Alexander Does Not Need A Keyboard, Alexander Does Not Need Internet, Bisexual Alexander Hamilton, F/M, GEORGE WANTS TO BE LOVED, George Just Wanted To Be A Farmer Not Run The Freaking Country, George Loves Nature, George Washington is everyone's dad, Georgie Is A Great Nickname, Hamilton Now Has A Political Blog, Human Disaster Alexander Hamilton, James Madison Got DECKED, John Is Done With Everyone, John is a Saint, Lafayette Is Pure Sunshine, M/M, Time Travel, cinnamon roll John Laurens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-01-16 14:03:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12344139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennthejerk/pseuds/jennthejerk
Summary: The Founding Fathers (a few of them) end up visiting 2017, and things are only a lot crazy while they're here.





	1. It Only Goes Downhill From Here, Folks

**Author's Note:**

> This is a series I've been pondering for months, and I hope y'all like it!! I know I have a lot of other projects to work on (OT4 in my Astrology Meets Hamilton series as well as requests *that are still open by the way* for my Reader-insert fics for Hamilton) but this wouldn't stop bugging me. I HAD DREAMS ABOUT THIS GUYS!!! But anyways, please enjoy this hella-short intro chapter. More will arrive soon. If you watch Bull on CBS, you'll recognize the characters and know what their job entails. Chris Jackson is a gay guy that played college football and worked for Vogue magazine before working under Bull at TAC. He's wonderful.

You were wrapping up the paperwork for your latest case won. As a lawyer working under TAC, you assisted Dr. Bull in analyzing jury behavior and finding the best jury to help win cases. Tonight, you needed a break. Working tirelessly for the public good was quite exhausting if you were being completely honest.

The elevator took its sweet time getting you to the ground floor, the music almost lulling you to sleep standing up. That is, until your phone rings at its highest volume possible.

Wondering who would be calling at two in the morning, you answer warily. “Hello?” The man’s voice that responded sounded deeper than a train, you barely understand what he’s even saying until he says there was a burglar in your house. That woke you up.

“We’re preparing to take him to the station. You will not have to-” “Actually,” You cut the man off. “I would like to see this burglar face to face before you take them away.” You have no idea why your mouth is forming those words, but it’s too late to change your mind now. The cop tries to dissuade you, but you interrupt him yet again. “I will be there in ten minutes, and if this suspect is not in my presence when I arrive, there will be consequences.” Click.

 

“Are you the owner of this house?” You affirm your status as the one who was almost robbed as you walk into your house. You knew it was a good investment to get a home security system.

“Now where is the perp?” You bark at the officer escorting you to your front door. Lights from the police cars cast your home in an ever-changing kaleidoscope of reds and blues, nearly giving you a headache. “Right this way,” You see a man sitting on your couch, hunched over in a manner where his face was hidden but you could tell he was still handcuffed.

“Sir, stand up.” No change in posture by the man in custody. “I said to stand up!” No compliance. Instead of wasting his breath, he gestured for the officers on either side of the man to pull him onto his feet, and they did so rather harshly. It made you wince, even though this guy had tried to rob you.

His head hung low and his shoulders shook, and if your ears weren’t failing you so young you could put it on your life that you heard sniffling.

“Have you ever seen this man before?” You were asked by the cop in charge as he gestured to the suspect. At that point, the man looked into your eyes and your senses left you stranded like a broken-down car in the middle of a deserted highway.


	2. So, A Turtle Broke Into My House...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You recognize the man who broke into your house. Problem is... he died over 200 years ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cliffie will be resolved!!! That is if you didn't get it from the title of the chapter. And since I don't trust Google Translate, I will put things that are meant to be in a different language in brackets, the language they're meant to be in mentioned before or after the quotes.

Your history major in college was something you’re going to be more grateful for in the future because in your living room was a man you recognized from historical volumes you pored over in college and in your free time: John Laurens.

You didn’t know what to do. You couldn’t let a man from over 200 years ago be sent to jail, even though you had no idea how in the hell he got into your house.

“Yes!” You had no control over your mouth, your brain takes over. Or maybe it wasn’t your brain. You honestly had no clue. “That’s my cousin! From France! He must have wanted to surprise me when I came home from work!”

You went to the man, bringing him into a hug. In his ear, you whispered, “Just go with it and I’ll help you.” The man acknowledged your words with a slight nod you felt because his face was now buried into your neck. Your neck was a little wet when you pulled away, and you felt a pang in your heart as you saw his eyes look helplessly into yours.

At your recognition of the man, the officers’ faces fell. They had wanted this to be a robbery they had prevented, but nope. Not this time. You started speaking in rapid-fire French to the man and he responded just as quick, the officers still in your living room being completely confounded as to what was being said and unsure of why they were still there.

“[How did you get here?]”  
“[All I remember is being in South Carolina and getting shot off my horse… Did I die?]”  
You took a deep breath before answering. “[Yes.]” He nodded grimly before speaking again.

“[And then I showed up here and tried to open a window, but then all these sounds went off! Minutes later, the scary men in blue came and started yelling at me with guns! Their blue and red lights and the sound they made was painful! Where am I and how did I get here?!]”

You brought him closer to you because it was immoral to just watch him in such a vulnerable state and do nothing to comfort him. The police officers sighed, awkwardly standing around.

“Well, I guess there’s nothing left for us to do here. Just, give your cousin a key so he doesn’t set off the burglar alarm next time he wants to pop in. Enjoy America, son,” The head officer gestured to the rest of his men and they left almost as quick as they came. Once they were gone, you separated yourself from the crying man in your living room.

The man you knew as John Laurens was undoubtedly scared and confused, looking like a deer in the headlights personified. He understood that it was safe to speak in English at the present time, so his pained voice showed more in his questions in his native tongue than French. “Where am I? What just happened? Who are you?”

“Mr. Laurens-” “Call me John- Wait, how do you know my name?!” He was begging the person that held his after-death fate in their hands to give him answers. “John, I’m going to need you to calm down. I will explain everything. But first, you need to sit down. I’ll give you some water.” You get him a glass of ice water from the kitchen.

You set it in front of him and instead of drinking it, he eyed it curiously. “How did you pick the ice so easily and in such a small size?” This was going to be fun. “I will get to that later. But onto more pressing matters, you are in New York City.” As you thought of what to say next, he spoke up once again. “This place looks nothing like the New York I knew.”

“I know John, but that was the 1770s.”  
John was confused. “Well, what year is it if it’s not my time?” Oh no. You knew it was inevitable, but its inevitability didn’t make this easier.  
“It’s 2017, John. You’ve been dead for over 200 years.”

And that was about the time you lost him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And if anyone noticed the number of chapters has changed, it is just an estimate because I honestly have no clue how long this will be. I have everything planned out down to the nitty-gritty but no clue how many chapters it will be.


	3. Here Grills The General

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after you keep John from going to jail, yet another familiar face nearly sets your house on fire. Who could be next?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You probs already know from the name of the chapter, but I like making references with chapter titles so just deal with it. Enjoy!!

John woke up in a bed he didn’t recognize and felt softer than normal, softer than anything he had ever been in. He sat up quickly, wondering if what happened the day before was a dream. Beside him on the nightstand were two little red pills for what use he had no idea, and he realized that he really was in a different time.

He didn’t even know the name of the woman who had helped him.

Defying every instinct he was taught to have as a soldier, he opened the door and began to descend the stairs, slowing down when he smelled one of the most enchanting aromas he ever had the privilege to smell.

You were cooking breakfast for the lost revolutionary, hoping he would be a little more rational after some sleep, a good meal, and time to comprehend everything that has happened in the past few hours. There was no denying it, the red and blue sirens probably scared the poor man to death. And not to mention how they were handling him so roughly… He was lost in a country he aided in the creation of but yet had no idea where he was.

You heard footsteps on the stairs and knew John must have smelled breakfast from one of your guest rooms.

“Mornin’, John! Did you sleep well?” You turned to see if that was acceptable for you to say. He smiled weakly; it could have been worse. “I, uh, slept… better than expected. How about you, Miss… Miss…?” You waited for him to finish, you think he had a stutter.  
Then you realized it: you didn’t even tell him your name! “Oh! Y/N Y/L/N. I can’t believe I forgot,” You laughed nervously as you flipped the last few pancakes, cursing quietly when one of them slid around when it landed back in the pan.

John’s face was shocked. A woman cursing, much less in front of a man she barely knew? Unheard of.

Realizing your mistake, you comment, “And by the way, John, cursing is nowhere near as big of a deal anymore. Just a heads up.” You get out plates, butter-knives, and forks and tell him to make himself a plate. He nods, piling it high with eggs, pancakes, bacon, and biscuits with gravy drizzled on top.  
[A/N: sorry if you’re vegetarian/vegan but I could not live like that so MEAT AND UNBORN CHICKEN FETUS FOR EVERYONE]

John, once he sits down, begins to eat as if he would never eat again. His chewing was accompanied by moans of delight as he ate bite after bite of your cooking. “This,” he spoke between forkfuls, “is the best thing I have ever eaten in my life!” He then must have remembered he was dead because he added as an afterthought, “Well, in my life and afterlife.”

You laughed at his statement and thanked him for the compliment, busy eating to really make small talk. As if John would be able to talk with his mouth full.

When you both were finished, you thought this was as good a time as ever to teach John about running water. Taking his plate from him, you put it in the sink and turn the faucet on. His eyes bulged out of his head and you were so sorry for the man.

“W-what is that?!” He knew you obviously weren’t scared of it but by God he was. “John, it’s water. Don’t worry.” His face turned a darker shade than normal as he nervously laughed. He looked so embarrassed, poor thing. “I know a lot of this will take some getting used to, but it will be okay. I promise.” He nodded. “I have no idea how bad the culture shock is for you but it would be easier for both of us -mostly you- if you trusted me.”

John stands and pushes in his chair as he replies. “Yes, I trust you. You did help me last night, you know, the men in blue and the passing-out thing. I’m very sorry about that, by the way.”

“John, you don’t need to apologize. I know this is going to be a hard adjustment for you to make. You popped into my house so you are now my responsibility to help survive in the modern world…” You sniff the air tentatively. Was something burning? Since you have had just cause to question your sanity in recent times, you ask John to help.

“John, do you smell something funny? Like, something burning?” He followed your example of sniffing the air and agreed. “I don’t know what it could be but it doesn’t smell right.” The smell became more pungent and you decided to investigate, John following slightly behind you. The closer you got to your back door, the stronger the smell grew.

You both heard a shout of, “Bloody Hell!” and turning to John, you saw his face pale. “What’s wrong?” Instead of answering, the revolutionary ran towards the smell and opened your patio door. He didn’t know what the flaming black contraption was but he recognized the man standing in front of it.

“General Washington! This way! Follow my voice!” John shouted to the man in front of the grill that John didn’t know was a grill. The lost general heard the voice and hesitated for only a moment before following it. You caught up to John and heard him shouting, nearly fainting when you see yet another historical figure much more recognizable by the typical American eye.

“Miss Y/N! Are you okay?” You ignored John, shoving him and grabbing the fire extinguisher from the other side of the patio and putting out the grill fire. How this even happened would be a mystery you would never want to know the answer to. Once the fire was out, you slumped against a wall. ‘Another one?’ You thought to yourself. ‘Who am I, DJ Khaled?’

You wanted an explanation as to why in hell you kept getting American Revolution icons in your house but knew you most likely weren’t going to get one. The best you can do for now -all you really can do- is now help not only John Laurens but George Washington adjust to the nation they’d made.


	4. Spending Hours In The Garden... Destroying It.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John questions why we credit Thomas Edison with inventing the lightbulb and George is excited over your mini-library. What could go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While writing this (hella long) chapter (TWO UPDATES IN ONE DAY MY PEEPS HOLLA), I accidentally made a reference to another time travel fic I'm super into: "How The World Works" by Baby_in_a_trenchcoat_1411  
> I highly recommend it because it is  
> A: phenomenal, and  
> B: phenomenal.

It had been two days since George had lit the grill on fire, and three since John had the police called on him. All in all, things were calm. You decided to use your vacation days -a task long overdue- to teach your new housemates how the world works in 2017.

“So let me get this straight, Thomas Edison didn’t really invent the lightbulb, but stole it from another guy?” John asked you. “Precisely. But no one ever talks about it though.”  
George was in your mini-library upstairs, admiring the many books you owned over nearly every topic.

John nodded, though unsure why we still credited Edison with the lightbulb invention when we know he wasn’t the one responsible. Before he could ask he was cut off by the sound of George bounding down the stairs two at a time, a nature book in his hands.

“Miss Y/N, I found the most intriguing plant in this book of nature,” George announced as he approached where you sat with John on the floor, your laptop in front of you and a stack of books between John and yourself. George planted himself on the corner of the coffee table, shoving the volume in front of your face on the page he found this said “interesting plant.”

“It’s a carnivorous plant that eats insects when they land on it!” You smile as you realize the first President of the United States of America was fangirling over a Venus flytrap. John, his interest piqued, stands to be beside you and the book.

You had an idea.

“Do you two remember when I told you about the place called ‘The Internet’?” The two men nod. “I can probably find videos of a Venus flytrap eating a fly if you two were up to it.” George’s eyes lit up with boyish excitement, John’s with the same.  
“Please do so, Miss Y/N!”  
“Could you please?”  
Laughing, you go to YouTube and search for videos of Venus flytraps eating things. What you find is exactly that… and two grown men (200 plus years grown) begging you to buy one.

“Okay, okay! I’ll see what I can do! But no promises on whether it’ll work!” George retreated back to your study, this time with John hot on his heels. Wondering what they’ll find amusing next, you decide to make lunch for them in the meantime. Nothing huge, really, just a ham-and-cheese sandwich to tide them over till dinner.

You were gathering the needed ingredients from the fridge when a crashing came from outside.

You had the feeling it was yet another eighteenth-century reject, but it was also not unheard of for robbers to attempt to strike in broad daylight. Stupid, but not unheard of. “John! George! Can you come downstairs please?” The duo came barreling down the stairs at your call, instantly raising their eyebrows at the noises coming from outside.

A string of profanities later accompanied by another crash you knew was your flowerpots provoked the men to go into your backyard. At that moment you realized what that most likely meant: yet another man from the history books is going to be in need of a place to crash.

Not that you were complaining, oh gosh no, but would they ever stop showing up? Was Napoleon Bonaparte going to invade your underwear drawer by Tuesday? You hoped not and really didn’t want to find out.

Another shout and crash came from the backyard and desperate to see the condition of your garden, you venture to your backyard.

The scene you come to find is similar to a hurricane struck your garden. Pots were broken nearly all over, their contents spilled out nearby. Your beautiful marigolds now were in pitiful piles of their former dwellings, roots exposed as the dirt in its direct radius expanding like blood around a dead body in a crime scene.

Your daffodils… What daffodils? They were now reduced to nothing but petals, leaves, and stem. You wanted to scream and cry and punch the asshole that did this to your beloved garden.

What you didn’t expect was the culprit being the face seen on the ten-dollar bill. Standing in the doorway of your back door, you watch the scene unfold from a distance.

“Alex, listen to me! It’s really us!” John was trying to reason with him while Alex was still stomping around and throwing the bigger chunks of shattered pots around. George narrowly missed one of the said projectiles with a duck -apparently, his sheer luck of not getting hit when things are flying towards him never really faded after 200 years- and moved closer to the latest addition to your time-traveling roomies.

“Son, stop throwing things like a temperamental child! Get ahold of yourself!” At that, George lunges toward the human catapult, holding his arms after a slight struggle of getting his grip on them. Once George had a grip on them, there was no freedom in sight for the shorter man who just destroyed your garden.

He himself realized this quickly, finally relaxing his muscles. He slumped to the ground and George went with him, not entirely trusting the smaller man’s so-called surrender.

You, believing that now the massacre was over, approach the man being held back by George. No matter his proper century, he just wrecked one of your favorite places to relax and you were not going to refrain from calling him out.

“You…” Your anger was building as your heart absorbed the gravity of what just happened.  
“You…” It was climbing at the same rate as the blood going to your face and the tears welling in your eyes. Your outdoor retreat from the stresses of work and society was now in shambles.

Your heart had seen enough. “You just destroyed my garden! How could you do that to me?!”

John and George cringed at your shout; in their days of knowing you, you never raised their voice in anger. Not even when John smeared your lipstick on the bathroom mirror -it was a $15 tube of Merle Norman- or when George had forgotten to put the seat back down, resulting in you getting your butt doused in toilet water when all you really wanted was to pee.

The man bowed his head in shame. “I… I’m lost. I don’t know what to do,” The story sounded familiar, seeing as it was what John and George had felt when they first arrived. “The last thing I remember was Angelica and my Betesy… oh, my dear sweet Betesy,” He seemed lost in his memories for a moment, his jolt back to reality is a shocking one.

“Where am I?” He noticed John watching him apprehensively. “Is it really you, Jack?” John nodded as he knelt in front of the garden destroyer, taking his face in his hands. A single tear went down Alex’s face and John wiped it with the pad of his thumb.

Seeing that the flurry of destruction has ended, George relinquished his grip on the newest revolutionary.

“Well, Mr. Garden-Butcher Hamilton,” you sarcastically remark, “you are in 2017, New York City.” After he committed the earlier described atrocity, you were by no means in the mood to console him. Later, maybe. But not now. “Johnny boy and George here have been here for a few days, and you just made angry the woman that has sole control of your fate in the modern world.”

Alexander’s face morphed into one of perplexion.

“Any questions before we head inside and clean the dirt off you?” It wasn’t quite rhetorical; you were genuinely curious as to what he would ask you right off the bat. Maybe he would ask about his wife or his children. Perhaps how his financial system fared for the past couple centuries. Something to do with politics or political parties?

“How did Jefferson die?” Eh, close enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we have John, George, and Alex as of right now. Tell me who you think will be next in the comments!! (I already know who it'll be & how they'll show up but I would like to see your guesses as to how they'll appear in 2017)
> 
> And a little shameless self-promo before I go: I have a series called "Astrology Meets Hamilton" where I use astrology to break down Hamilton ships to their very foundation. I have analyzed Jamilton, HamBurr, and Lams (the first of six in the Poly!Hamilsquad complete ship analyzation) so far. Washette, the rest of Hamilsquad, and JeffMads being in the near future.
> 
> Love you all!!


	5. The Aftermath of Hurricane Hamilton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George is a saint in man's clothing. Nothing else needs to be said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am literally KILLING IT when it comes to updates!! I'm caught up on my schoolwork (with all A's may I add), I don't have writer's block, AND I didn't murder anyone today!!! (Dude seriously, there are people in my APUSH class that do not need to be in there, much less in my group) Enough of my AP woes, enjoy Chapter Five!!

Once Alexander was in the house -John went to show him the Venus flytrap video on your computer to give you some space- you begin to roam about your destroyed garden, a few tears falling as you did. There was no way to glue together each and every pot that was broken, to mend every ripped and tattered petal. Your garden looked a lost cause.

George was heartbroken for you, remembering how he felt when Mount Vernon was dilapidated once he returned from the war. He didn’t know what to say because there was nothing he could say; this he knew to ring true. No one had the words to soothe him back then, and despite every technological advancement made in the past two centuries, George didn’t think the pain of loss had been made easier to bear or alleviate. Nevertheless, he had set his mind to soothing you and nothing from his time or yours could deter him.

Approaching you like one would a baby deer, he rested a comforting hand on your shoulder. “Miss Y/N, I know this is a most painful situation.” He paused, thinking his words over carefully, planning out his next step with painstaking precision.

“I remember returning from the woes and duties of war to find my home in a state of chaos.” He cleared his throat as he noticed another tear roll down your cheek. George knows you most likely already know everything he’s telling you (you had told him and John about your history major), but he proceeds anyhow. “I was serving my country in its time of need, and I was spiteful that not even one of my family could be trusted to maintain its splendor.”

He paused once again, moving his eyes to the left in an attempt to gauge your reaction. You were gorgonized into a statue of grief, the only indications of your human state being your crystal tears falling like rain.

“My home was my solace when the burdens of being a general felt heavy upon my shoulders, my mind escaping for brief moments to the life waiting for me where the people there addressed me by something besides ‘General’.” George wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side as one would if they were consoling a friend in pain.

“I believe that this garden was that for you, your refuge from the real world when problems and frustrations began to pile higher than you can climb.” George felt you nod into his side, having buried yourself into his torso that was a little wetter now than it was earlier.

“If you shall be up for it, I would like to aid you in the restoration of your garden.” Your ears had to be deceiving you. Not only were you hallucinating three founding fathers showing up in your house, but after one of the apparitions had done actual damage to your garden, another one was offering to help fix it.

At least, you wanted to believe this was all a really messed-up dream… partly. In the time that John and George have been in your life, you had learned to appreciate every miniscule amenity you owned from running water to air conditioning. Your eyes were opened wider to the world around more than ever, and they were to thank. Up until Hamilton showed up, you rather enjoyed the company of the revolutionaries.

“I believe your garden to be peaceful and serene, and have taken a liking to admiring the blooms upon the summer wind. It will take time and sweat off the brow to restore your solace to its natural and former blessed glory, but in vain will the efforts not be in the end. That is if you would permit my assistance to the cause.”

You had no idea what to say. George’s words seemed to snap you back to the reality that your garden can be repaired. You didn’t know anyone that had a garden planted by a founding father, much less three. Besides, what better group bonding activity?

Wiping your eyes, you move out of George’s embrace and bend down to a busted pot with marigolds spilling out, your eye-catching a bloom that remained perfectly intact throughout the storm that was Alexander Hamilton.

“I’d have to run to the hardware store and buy more of nearly everything he broke, but it can be done.” Setting it back in its former place, you give George a hug he returned instantly. “Thank you, George. Tell the boys we’re going shopping.” He nodded, heading back inside. You heard John shout in glee from outside and decided that today would be a productive day despite its disastrous start.

Turning your back to the mess, you head back inside. The moment the back door was closed, John was asking if the hardware store sold Venus flytraps. Instead of replying, you head upstairs and grab your purse. “First things first, you three need new clothes. You will get nowhere near as much done in a full-scale uniform than a pair of jeans and a t-shirt.” Alex, being the quote-unquote uncultured one, had no clue what was going on.

You were curious as to what the boys would deem “their style” once you got to Target. Any mall was off-limits until you had more of a feel as to how they would act in a crowd. Plus, this was your shopping budget. You’d be paying out of your pocket. You could at least have a say in where you go to get them clothes as well as extras for the probable “next one” who's going to show up.

After the clothes were bought, you would head to the hardware store and begin the outdoor restoration process.

But before any of that, it was time to introduce them to cars.

This will be fun.


	6. Taking Invisible Horses by the Imaginary Reins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever since the first revolutionary showed up, you have become less certain of a lot of things. What you are certain of, however, is that you will NEVER take these boys on a road trip. Not even for the money that their faces are on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things before you read:  
> 1: My buddy Nick has taken an interest in helping me write this series recently since he pitched in a tad in Chapter 5 (helping with how to word stuff and whatnot, helping when I get stuck on how to convey my ideas). I've been bouncing ideas off him and this chapter has a smidgen of Nick-inspired banter.  
> 2: For the first part where they're bickering (and for future bits like the beginning of the chapter), the code for who's who is as follows: Italics=John; Bold=Alexander; Both=George  
> I'll include it each time another of those moments comes up so you won't have to remember it forever.  
> Now enjoy!!!

You open the front door, keys in hand. Alex, John, and George file out of your house before you lock it behind you. Learning from previous mistakes, you turn off the alarm system in the case of another revolutionary showing up while you’re gone.

“This, gentlemen, is what we call a car. Just let me unlock it and we’ll be ready to go.” Stretching an arm out towards your trusty vehicle, the boys watch in awe as you press the button on the keyring to unlock it.

Their expressions were priceless when the car made the noise signaling its unlocked state.

 _ **“That button unlocks the entire automobile? Phenomenal!”**_ **“That’s the doorknob? Not very knobby, if I do say so myself.”** _“So it isn’t powered by invisible horses? Well, why do they call it ‘horsepower’ then?”_ The three veterans got into your car; John in the front, George behind you, and Alex behind John.

A/N: (NOT IN THE OTHER WAY YOU NASTIES)

You got into the driver’s seat, starting the car but not yet leaving. You wanted to give them time to adjust to this a little more before you actually start driving.

 _ **“What does this button do?”**_ **“What about that lever? What does it do?”** _“Can this seat move back-”_ **“OW! MY LEGS!”** _“Sorry, let me fix that-”_ **“YOU’RE MAKING IT WORSE STOP-”** _“Well I’m sorry! I’ve never done this before!”_ **_“Hey boys, look at this! The glass moves up and down!”_** **“FREE MY LEGS!”** _“I’M TRYING-"_ _**“This button locks the door! Isn’t that nifty?”**_ **“NIFTY, YOU SAY?! WELL SAY TO THE BOBOLYNE IN THE FRONT TO FREE MY GOD-FORSAKEN LEGS!”**

“Everyone, be QUIET!” You shouted over their bickering. You hadn’t even left the driveway and this is already starting to become a nightmare. “Get out of the car. Everyone.” They hesitated like a scolded child would when being reprimanded. “Come on, hurry it up.” The three men exited the car, shutting their respective doors.

“George, you’re riding shotgun.” When he didn’t move, you clarified. “Where John was. It’s called ‘shotgun’ for reasons I don’t know.” George gets in, gingerly sitting. “Now you two," you spoke, gesturing to Alex and John, "pay attention to what I’m about to say.” They stood behind you, looking over your shoulder as you spoke.

“This strap right here is a seatbelt. They are equipped in nearly every vehicle on the road. When you get into a car, the first thing you do is put it on like this,” Grabbing George’s seatbelt, you take the buckle in your hands, showing it to the three men.

“There is a hole that this piece fits into perfectly, securing you into the seat. You’ll know it’s secure when you hear this click,” You lean over George, clicking his seatbelt for him. The three nod when they hear the satisfying click of the buckle, saving the sound into their memories.

“To take it off, you press the little red button. This diagonal strap goes across your chest like so,” You point to how George’s strap is positioned as you straighten yourself back, leaning out of the car. “And this lower one should be like this around your abdomen.”

“Ah, Miss Y/N, it feels slightly suffocating around my abdomen. What do I do?” George questions, looking slightly uncomfortable with the pressure caused by the seat belt. “Just take some of the diagonal strap and feed it to the right.” George does as you tell him, John and Alex watching intently. “See? Now you try, George. Unbuckle it and put it back on again.”

He did as you asked, taking it off completely before, with trepidation, buckling it back. He gained confidence in his ability to buckle and unbuckle a seatbelt. “This is rather simplistic. Thank you, Miss Y/N.” You smile at his thank-you. “Anytime, George.”

You turn to the younger men behind you. “Which one of you has smaller legs?” Alex and John begin to compare their leg sizes for a moment too long before you intervene. “Alex, you’re shorter, so you sit behind George. John, you can sit behind me.” They both nod and start to get into their respective seats, you begin to follow suit.

John had no problem with the instructions. Alex, on the other hand, immediately begins to complain. “You never fixed it after John had attempted to squash me into a pulp!”  
“I said I was sorry,” John cut in. Alex ignored the rebuttal, instead peeping around the passenger seat to complain.  
“Nevertheless, I can’t get comfortable without having room for my legs!”

“Just give me a moment Alexander, and the situation will be fixed momentarily.” Holding in an exasperated sigh, you go back to George’s seat, where Alex’s -and yours as well- problems lie. Instead of bending down into the floorboard, which would make everyone here uncomfortable, you begin to instruct George on how to fix the problem himself.

“George,” the man in question turns his head to you in an instant. “Put your dominant hand under the seat. You should feel a metal bar that goes across the width of the seat.” Once his hand finds it, he asks you what to do next. “Take your other hand and hold onto the handle in front of you. When you have a good grip, pull the metal bar up. You should feel the seat get loose.”

George adjusts his grip for a moment before pulling up on the bar, a slight gasp of surprise when the seat begins to move. “Perfect. Now, pull your body forward with the hand holding onto the handle.” George did as you said, smiling as he moved back and forth in an attempt to give Alex room as well as himself.

“Do you have room, Alexander?” He asked politely. “Yeah,” Alex gruffed, somewhat satisfied with his leg space. You can’t please everyone, especially not him apparently.

“John, are you okay back there?” “Yeah, I’m fine,” Maybe now we can actually go.

“Miss Y/N, I believe my rear is growing in extreme temperature. It’s not very pleasing, so may you instruct me as to how to fix it?” Nevermind. Too optimistic. At least this was a simple fix. He must have hit the button when shutting his door and now it was noticeable enough for him to point it out.

At least you weren’t driving already. That would have caused so many other problems you did not want to deal with.

“George, you accidentally turned on the seat warmer.” You literally could not believe this. “On cold days, you can press a button and it’ll get you warmer faster.” All you wanted was to go out for a few hours, shop a little, but nope.

“Look at the door.” You paused to give him a moment. “You will see a orange light above a circular button with a drawing of a seat on it.”  
“I see it, Miss Y/N. Now what do I do next?”  
“The letters ‘HI’ are above the light. That means the heat is on the highest level. Press the button until there is no light.”  
You hear the button be pressed twice.  
“It will take a few for you to feel back to normal, but you’ll be okay.”

With that out of the way, you begin to drive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be shopping time!!! I can't wait!!!


	7. I Dream of Life Without a Fashion Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Singing, shopping, and sobbing.

The car ride to Target was considerably better -barely- than the process of getting in the car. You made the mistake of introducing them to the beauty of the car while driving… Yeah. That didn’t go well.

“Another feature cars have now is a radio. It plays music to make trips more fun and tolerable.” It was silent for a moment, but you knew it wouldn’t last long. “What does it play?”John spoke from behind you. Called it.

“Anything you can think of. Watch this,” you reply before using your car’s talking feature to play their first taste of classic rock. “Hey Google, play my Classics playlist.” You waited patiently, the others wondering what was going to happen next.

“Classic what?” Alex had questioned. “Classic rock.” Then the music began before he could say something else.

 _“Carry on my wayward son_  
_There’ll be peace when you are done_  
_Lay your weary head to rest_  
_Don’t you cry no more”_

You loved this song and were glad this was the first song they ever heard in modern times.

John apparently thought this song was the coolest thing since sliced bread. He began to sway to the song and by the second verse, he caught on to the chorus and was singing along excitedly.

Once it ended, you turned down the music and told them you were going to show them another genre. “What will it be next?” Light bulb moment.

“Hey Google, play my Basic playlist.”

That was the final blow. Why?  
John loved anything by Sam Smith.  
Alex was now a fan of Britney Spears. (You will never hear Toxic the same way ever again)  
George, however, only tolerated it.

You sensed his disgruntled state, deciding to go back to your classics before you got to the store. “Hey Google, play my Classics playlist.” George silently thanked you for ending the pop music invasion taking over his ears.

“Aw, man!”  
“I love that song!”

You had just turned off Hollaback Girl.

In replacement, one of the best songs in classic rock history began to play from your speakers.

 _“Living easy_  
_Loving free_  
_Season ticket on a one way ride_  
_Asking nothing_  
_Leave me be_  
_Taking everythin' in my stride”_

Alex and John stopped complaining about cutting off Gwen Stefani since they were now immersed into an AC/DC classic. George seemed pleased with the song, humming with the music once he caught the beat.

You lightly sang along, wanting to keep your focus on driving. Normally you shouted the lyrics obnoxiously with the song at almost full blast, but not every day did you have people who were so unused to the sound of a loud stereo in your car… or the sound of the obnoxious “don’t-care-what-I-sound-like” voice when one of your favorites comes on.

One Aerosmith, an Eagles, and a Rolling Stones later, you were pulling into the Target parking lot. The men were moving to get out of the car but before they could, you were going to establish some ground rules first. Locking every door from your side, Alex jerked on the handle for a few seconds before realizing he wasn’t going to get out.

“Ground rules, gentlemen: no talking to strangers. If anyone asks if you need help, say ‘no, thank you’ and come find me. Do not leave the clothing section. If you want to try something on, come find me first. I will have the final say on what is bought because this is my money, no exceptions. Stay in plain sight, and do not take the tags off of anything. Do I make myself clear?”

They respond with “yes ma’am” and with that, you unlock the doors.

“Remember, stay with me until we get to the clothes. Then you can spread out a little and figure out what you like. I’m going to grab some work clothes for the garden fixing later and an extra outfit or two for whoever decides to pop in next.”

The four of you walk inside together, the three of them surprised when the doors opened automatically. “It’s okay, they’re supposed to do that.” Your reassurance calmed the men as you grabbed a buggy. “George, could you grab another buggy? The clothes probably won’t fit in just one.” He gives you a confused look that vaguely reminded you of a puppy before you pointed to the one in front of you. “One of these,”

“Oh, of course.” He does exactly that, following slightly behind you to your right, pushing the buggy in front of him. Alex was walking beside George, John taking a spot beside you as you navigated the aisles until you got to the clothes.

“John, you and Alex can stay together. George, you can come with me. Any objections?” None were made. “Okay, and we’re off!”

 

This turned out better than you expected, given the earlier disaster of getting in the car. Their styles were strangely fitting, to say the least.

John had an affinity for scarves and had you buy six different patterns and colors. His wardrobe would consist of solely dark jeans, a pair of black high-top Converse, and graphic tees accompanied by a black trench coat that looked extremely stylish on the abolitionist.

Alex was a business casual kind of guy. His clothing choices were not too stuffy and official but didn’t look scrappy either. He snagged a few bright-colored button-up shirts, some khakis, and shoes to match. You had seen his almost-rainbow of blue and two shades of green shirts and tried to give him a magenta one of the same brand you thought looked dashing with his eyes; needless to say, you did not get him a magenta shirt.

George was another matter entirely. It took him a little longer than the others to find blue jeans that fit both his long legs and thighs as well as his waist, but when he did… wow. He rocked a pair of Wranglers like you had never seen, ending his shopping spree with faded blue jeans, solid t-shirts of grey, black, and white, and a leather jacket to top it off.

When he threw the said leather jacket on over a grey tee, you immediately were in awe. Telling to stay where he was, you ran to the sunglasses display you saw on the way into the fitting room. You snatched a pair of aviator shades from the display, ran back to his stall, and handed them to George.

“Don’t move, I’ve got to take a picture of this,” He stood there patiently while you found the perfect angle. Once you did and heard the shutter sound emit from your phone, you were satisfied. “You are getting this, no question about it.”

He nodded, shutting the door so he could get back into his clothes. You felt so productive now at two in the afternoon that you were willing to save the garden-fixing for tomorrow.

Remembering that you needed to get clothes for another potential arrival, you grab a few pairs of sweats and tees. You could just bring them back here to see what they like later on.

At the end of the trip, you were very proud. Instead of wanting white or black socks, every single man wanted the craziest socks that were sold. Knee-high, ankle, or calf-high; if it was a crazy sock, they wanted it. Every penny of the purchase cost was a few hundred dollars shy of your wardrobe budget for the next two months.

You got a few funny looks when you paid for their clothes -probably thought you were some sort of sugar mama or something- but no one brought up the familiarity of the other three members of your group.

The car ride home was considerably easier since they already knew how everything worked. You continued to play the Classics playlist all the way home, no one complaining once.

Numerous thank-you’s poured from the revolutionaries as you unlocked the front door. “It’s not a problem, guys. Don’t-” You paused mid-sentence, puzzling the men.

“What is it?”  
“Shh, I hear something,” You shush whoever just spoke, not really paying attention to who.

“I think it’s coming from the bathroom,” John inferred. George and Alex hummed in agreement.

“I’ll go check it out. Stay close.” With that, you cautiously approached the bathroom. The door was standing wide open and the lights on. It could have been your ears deceiving you, but you could have sworn someone was crying in there.

“Hello? Are you okay? I won’t hurt you,” you attempted to soothe the mystery person, but they stayed where they were. You quietly peeked into the open door, seeing the said mystery person curled into a ball, their face hidden by their arms. You could tell it was a man; who, you didn’t know.

George peered over your shoulder and nearly fell to the ground in shock.

“Gilbert, my boy…” George’s voice cracked, Gilbert poking his head out.

“George?”


	8. Everyone's Favorite Freaking-Adorable Frenchman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to give the subjects of the history lessons one of their own as you welcome a loving and hella adorable Frenchman into your humble abode.  
> PS: I DON'T SPEAK FRENCH SO PLEASE DON'T SHOOT ME IF THE TRANSLATION IS BUTCHERED I AM SO SORRY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so appreciative of the love I have received from this series!! Every comment, kudo, and bookmark sets me over the moon because I feel like I'm actually making people's days or minutes better with how I write. I hope you continue to follow this journey and that I am able to continue to make your days a smidgen better. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for everything.

The mess of a man curled up on the bathroom floor reminded you so much of the fear you saw in John’s eyes when everyone first started to show up. You wanted to hug the poor man, but you didn’t want to frighten the poor thing even more.  
He was vulnerable right now, and your fourth time around wasn’t particularly easier. If anything, it was harder because he was crying.

“General? Is it really you?” Lafayette’s accent was very heavy in his fear. It broke your heart. You knew from your studies that the man in front of you was as pure as anyone has ever been, and you knew everyone else thought the same.

George, with tears in his eyes, helped the Frenchman off the ground and into an embrace. The sight made your heart grow a few sizes larger than normal; no TV show or movie has ever succeeded at capturing in one scene so much love and joy, and you didn’t think they ever would.

You heard sniffles around you -not just yours- and despite you wanting to watch such a momentous occasion, you gestured for John and Alex to give them some space. They both nodded and led the way to the living room, but not before you heard the Frenchman let out a whimper of “Papa” in George’s shoulder.

Once the three of you were in the living room, you decided to make a plan for the future. “Alexander, I know we got off on the wrong foot earlier. You did ruin my garden a few hours ago, but we can fix that tomorrow after we get yourself and Laf more accustomed to the 21st century.”

You were about to continue, but Alex gave you a puzzled look. Raising an eyebrow at him, you cue him to ask whatever was on his mind. “Why did you call him ‘Laf’?” That would be an understandable question.

“Oh, it just helped me during my college years to say his name quickly and get on with my point. Like how I call you Alex sometimes.”  
“Okay, that makes sense.”

“Miss Y/N,” George announced, him walking into the room with a wider smile than you had ever seen on him through portraits or since he lit your grill on fire. He had an arm around a considerably calmer Lafayette’s shoulder in a protecting manner that made you melt. “Meet the marquis de Lafayette.”

Lafayette walked to you, taking one of your hands in his and pressing a kiss light as a feather on the top of it. You felt the blood rush to your face at the gesture. His head bowed slightly, the Frenchman glancing at you through his eyelashes. “Bonjour, mon swavior. La gentillesse que vous avez montré à tout le monde ici m’a rempli d’espoir que j’ai va s’adapter à ces circonstances inconnues.”

You reply with a simple “Bien sur,” as Lafayette straightens and releases your hand.

It takes you a moment to recompose yourself, but you eventually do and address the now four revolutionaries.

“Sleeping arrangements will be changed with the appearance of the marquis, but that can be dealt with later this evening. Right now, I want everyone to sit somewhere in here while I debrief you on the past two hundred years.”

You were so going to send your former professor a letter of thanks for being so marvelous because they not only taught you the information, but how to teach it to someone else. Maybe not to the people that were the subjects of some of said lessons, but you fared pretty well.

You unfortunately were not prepared for Alex’s reaction when you told him the next few Presidents that rose to power after he had died. He had believed Jefferson would only serve one term and had honestly not put too much consideration into who would succeed his archenemy.

What angered him more than Jefferson’s two-term Presidency and Madison’s Presidency as a whole put together was Monroe’s. More than that, the fact Monroe’s Presidency was called “The Era of Good Feelings” put him in a sour mood.

You, however, recalled a juicy piece of history gossip that was deserving of an Oscar. You briefly informed Alex of how Eliza had fought for five decades to preserve his legacy from being tarnished by his enemies, and promptly Googled an article based on one of the best clap-backs in history in a time before clap-backs were applauded by the masses.

You begin to recite it aloud for the men, your phone screen too small for everyone to crowd around you and read.

“The decades that she devoted to conserving her husband’s legacy made Eliza only more militantly loyal to his memory, and there was one injury she could never forget: the exposure of the Maria Reynolds affair, for which she squarely blamed James Monroe.” You saw Alex wince, George doing the same. John and Lafayette were confused as to why it had an impact on Alex the way it did. Instead of acknowledging it and divulging the details of said affair, you continued reading.

“In the 1820s, after Monroe had completed two terms as president, he called upon Eliza in Washington, D.C., hoping to thaw the frost between them. Eliza was then about seventy and staying at her daughter’s home.” You paused, letting the words sink in for a moment before continuing.

“She was sitting in the backyard with her fifteen-year-old nephew when a maid emerged and presented the ex-president’s card. Far from being flattered by this distinguished visitor, Eliza was taken aback. ‘She read the name and stood holding the card, much perturbed,’ said her nephew. ‘Her voice sank and she spoke very low, as she always did when she was angry.’” Alex knew this voice, and it frightened even him when she used it.

“‘What has that man come to see me for?’ she asked. The nephew said that Monroe must have stopped by to pay his respects. She wavered, finally agreeing to see him. When she entered the parlor, Monroe rose to greet her. Eliza then did something out of character and socially unthinkable: she stood facing the ex-president but did not invite him to sit down.” There were gasps from the men, Alex’s infused with barely-contained laughter at her slight committed against one of his biggest political foes.

“With a bow, Monroe began what sounded like a well-rehearsed speech, stating ‘that it was many years since they had met, that the lapse of time brought its softening influences, that they both were nearing the grave, when past differences could be forgiven and forgotten.’ Even at this late date, thirty years after the fact, she was not in the forgiving mood.” Pausing once again to make sure everyone was on the same page, you kept on.

“‘Mr. Monroe,’ she told him, ‘if you have come to tell me that you repent, that you are sorry, very sorry, for the misrepresentations and the slanders and the stories you circulated against my dear husband, if you have come to say this, I understand it. But otherwise, no lapse of time, no nearness to the grave, makes any difference.’” Alex looked nearly stunned with pride for his wife. George was merely amused by the actions of the woman in question.

“Monroe took in this rebuke without comment. Stunned by the fiery words delivered by the elderly little woman in widow’s weeds, the ex-president picked up his hat, bid Eliza good day, and left the house, never to return.” Alex couldn’t hold in his joy by story’s end, beginning to cackle obscenely at the social sin his wife committed against Monroe.

His laughter was like a domino, triggering the falling apart of the composure of everyone else in the room. “Did she really do that?” Alex asked you, breath uneven. You nodded, your laughter disabling your ability to talk.

It took a few more minutes, but everyone finally regained their composure. It wouldn’t stay for long, thanks to another golden fact you were searching for an article about.

“I’m glad you’re not offended, George, because Martha did something similar to Eliza after your death.” You could tell everyone was dying to know. Everyone knew Martha, and wondered who her target was.

Clearing your throat, you begin to read once more. “In January 1801, Jefferson, a presidential candidate, decided to visit Mount Vernon to pay his respects to the grieving widow. It probably wasn’t out of the goodness of his heart—Washington had been dead for more than a year, and the trip was highly publicized, likely with the hopes that it would help him win favor with the Federalists.”

Alex rolled his eyes, George letting out a sigh. Lafayette and John, however, held no comment. John had no opinion of Jefferson, never having the displeasure to meet him.

“Though Martha allowed the visit, she remarked to clergyman Manasseh Cutler that she found Jefferson ‘one of the most detestable of mankind,’ and believed that his election was the ‘greatest misfortune our nation has ever experienced.’”

“She was absolutely correct! The hypocrite used my interpretation of the Constitution to expand the size of the United States drastically, when years earlier, he fought against my interpretation when the matter in question was my bank!” Alex began to rant, but you shushed him so you could continue.

“Losing George was the worst thing that had ever happened to her, Martha once said—but hosting Jefferson at Mount Vernon was right up there. According to a friend, Martha called Jefferson's visit ‘the second most painful occurrence of her life.’” George let out a hearty laugh, Alex joining him. Lafayette, however, did not share this laughter. He was close with Jefferson as well as Alexander and did not want to disgrace the name of his deceased colleague.

Sensing this discomfort, you decide to get on with the lesson. It took hours to explain everything, but it paid off… to an extent.

“You said this laptop thing can tell people information on the other side of the world, right?” Alex questioned. You nodded.

“Can you teach me how to work it?”

And that was how Hamilton’s political blog legacy began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (That I Hope Are Right):  
> Laf: "Hello, my savior. The kindness that you have shown everyone here filled me with hope that I will adapt to these unknown circumstances."
> 
> Sources for Articles:  
> http://publius-esquire.tumblr.com/post/127647056445/the-decades-that-she-devoted-to-conserving-her  
> (it was quoting Alexander Hamilton by Ron Chernow)  
> http://mentalfloss.com/article/82535/why-martha-washington-called-visit-thomas-jefferson-one-worst-experiences-her-life


	9. Philo Mayhem Ensues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex not only likes to tell people what they do wrong, but he also loves to punch them in the face for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> G U Y S ! I am on Tumblr! It's @jennthejerk in case anyone is curious. Everything on here is posted there so it'll all be easier to access from more than one place. Read on!!

“Alex, what are you doing? Go back to sleep, it’s late.” The revolutionary’s face was illuminated by the laptop screen, bags beginning to make an appearance under his eyes. Maybe showing him how to operate your laptop wasn’t such a brilliant idea after all. “Even though you’re technically dead, those bags say otherwise.”

Alex rolls his eyes, now used to your caring banter after three weeks of being in 2017. It came with its challenges and Alex found solace through doing what no other can do as eloquently as he: telling people just how wrong they are.

“I just need to write a few more things down and tell off this one idiot that wants to ban all immigration to the US. How does he not see how ignorant that is? This bloody immigrant created the money that he pays his Internet bill with that enables him to post such nonsense online for all to see! I…”

You placed a hand on Alex’s shoulder from where you stood behind him, his body nearly swallowed by the swivel chair he’s been in for probably hours. He enjoyed the invention too much for you to tell him Jefferson is the one who is credited for its being; it may seem wrong, but you enjoy your swivel chair.

You know what he did to your garden and didn’t doubt for a second that he wouldn’t hesitate to destroy the jewel of Jeffersonian craftsmanship the first chance he got.

“You need to sleep, it’s nearly two thirty in the morning. His uninformed ideas will still be there when you wake up.” Alex looked like a managed trainwreck and you had no idea when he last ate. “I’ll fix you a bowl of Ramen. You need something in your stomach.”

Alex let out a sigh that turned into a yawn. “If I eat, will you leave me be? Stubborn ass. You wanted him to just go to bed but knowing Alex, he would wake up the rest of the house just to prove his way to be better. However, you had insight that your Caribbean housemate didn’t. He’ll be asleep before you even finish cooking at the rate he’s going.

“Well, I guess. As long as you eventually go to sleep, I’ll leave you be.”  
“Okay.”

Grabbing a package of Ramen from your pantry, you begin to make him a hella-late dinner or a hella-early breakfast, depending on the view.

Alex, not wanting to be alone when you were in the kitchen, left the living room to perch atop the counter by the stove. It became a habit of his that instead of helping to cook dinner any given night, he would “supervise” everyone else’s work. Even though you occasionally needed said counter space, you never told him to get down.

You hummed a tune while you cooked Alex’s food, halfway listening to whatever Alex was talking about. A cleared throat snapped you out of your daze, Alex probably wanting to ask your input on something.

“What do you need, Alex?” No verbal answer came. Instead, you heard the sound of feet hitting the ground hard and a guttural sound emitting from Alex’s throat.

“Hamilton, restrain yourself,” an unfamiliar voice, almost a whisper, echoed through the hallway. ‘Another one?’ You thought to yourself. Then your mind caught up: Alex didn’t look especially thrilled to see whoever this was. You hastily moved the noodles off the burner just in time to see Alex lunge for the newest addition to your all-American family.

“You deserted me!” Alex shouted, pinning them to the ground. “Once you built a name for yourself, you left me! Left me like a bird with a broken wing!” You could tell that Alex’s current adversary was defending themselves vainly as Alex nailed a punch to the face. Rushing into the fray, your attempt to pry Alex off his opponent earned you an elbow to the gut as well as his head jutting backward and meeting your face, your nose now bloody.

Stepping back to keep from getting hit even more, you shout a pained “George!” towards the bedrooms. You stared at the scene helplessly, hoping he wasn’t a heavy sleeper. Thank Chuck he wasn’t -and neither were John and Laf- because the men rushed to your aid, shock on their faces as they assessed the scene unfolding before them.

John hopped into action first, Laf and George following seconds after. While the other two worked on weaseling themselves between Alex and the unknown foe, John rushed to your side. He was alarmed by your bleeding nose, rushing around the kitchen in search of an old dishrag you wouldn’t mind getting bloody. Soon after beginning his search, he succeeded and after getting it wet under the tap, he handed it to you and brought you to his chest.

“Alexander, get ahold of yourself! Exhibit some self-restraint!” George shouted. “Gilbert, grab his arms!” “Alex, mon ami, cease your attack!” “You deserted me! How dare you!” “Alexander, stop this nonsense! Do you not see what you have done?” “Mademoiselle Y/N is injured and you aren’t helping anyone at the moment!” Pausing, Alex craned his neck around where Laf and George were standing to find you being comforted and nursed by John, a bloody rag held to your face.

This brief moment of hesitation allowed the Virginian and the Frenchman to hoist Alex up by his arms off of the not-so-formidable foe without further injury to anyone else. “Alex, that was so uncalled for,” you scolded. Your voice sounded extra nasally with your blood rag pressed against it, your words not carrying the tone you wanted to achieve.

“Would some assistance be too much to ask for at the present moment?” A voice calls from the ground. Breaking from John’s embrace and setting your rag to the side, you approach the man now on your floor, who was also a tad bloody. You stick out a hand towards him and he accepts it gratefully.

Alex was being restrained slightly by the same two that were able to control him moments earlier. When the newest arrival was back on his feet, you recognized the face in front of you, even if it was slightly pummeled.

“Mr. Madison, I am so deeply sorry for the manner which you arrived to my home. Please sit and I will explain everything; don’t worry, Alexander is under control.” On the bright side, he hasn’t fainted, destroyed anything, or started crying… yet. It’s never too late for that, but fingers crossed.

James was wounded slightly, but not too severely; he could take a few bruises and broken skin and be okay, you thought. He does need a band-aid and an ice pack though. “John, can you get the first aid kit from the bathroom? And toss me my rag too, if you would.”

John hands you your rag on his way to retrieve the medical kit you bought soon after Alex arrived. That man found so many ways to get himself hurt, and Gil was just the same. “Gil, take Alexander upstairs to cool off. I’ll bring you up some aspirin later, or get John to do it.”

Gilbert, instead of letting his angry friend walk -stomp, rather, because he had a tendency to stomp when angry- upstairs on his own, he slung the self-proclaimed New Yorker over his shoulder and hauled him to his bedroom, Alex complaining all the while but making no attempt to wriggle himself free.

George approached your slightly shaking figure, gingerly taking your face in his calloused hands as he examined your wound himself. Needless to say, he did not like what he saw. “Miss Y/N, you need to rest. It’s been a crazy night so far, one that does not plan on slowing down anytime soon, I believe.” He was so caring you couldn’t even comprehend why people thought he was such a stoic and emotionless man. Far from that, in fact.

“George, you’ve barely been here for a month. It’s my responsibility to do this,” You knew he was trying to get you to sleep and then brief James in on the centuries passed by. He and the others were in a time period they did not know, save from what you taught them. This was your fight, you were given this responsibility and were not going to ruin it. They showed up at your house, so they were yours to take care of.

“You’re not well, you must relax. Mr. Madison will still be here when you rise in the morning, so please sleep.” George was adamant, and you were too high-strung to object as George picked you up bridal-style into his arms. Whatever protests you normally would have made died on your tongue as your body hit the bed softly, you finally realize how exhausted you were from the night’s previous events.

“Sleep well, Miss Y/N. I will take care of everything.” The last thing you remember is your blankets being thrown over you and a light kiss being pressed to your forehead before the Sandman threw a rock at your head, you falling under his spell.


	10. Nicknames and Rhetoric For Miles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This wake-up call was more than you bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter made me so emotional while writing it, just saying. Have fun!

“Miss Y/N, rise and shine,” a voice beckoned to you. “We cooked you a pleasant breakfast.” You sat up in your bed, confused as to why George and John were in your bedroom. That is, until you see them with a plate of waffles, bacon, eggs, and a glass of orange juice. “Guys…” You were so touched at the gesture. “Thank you, but why?”

John smiled at you; it was a cheeky grin that could only signify mischief. “Read the drizzle.” Boy did that sound wrong on so many levels. Rather than acknowledging that fact, you examine your breakfast closely. In chocolate, written on the plate’s edges, was the phrase “I’M SORRY -AH.” 

You were about to question whether Alex wrote that himself -speak of the Devil and he shall come- Alex popped his head in the doorway, “whispering” to John, “Did she read my apology?”

You stifled a laugh while John shooed the shorter man out of the doorway. “And there’s also a note he wrote. To apologize for, you know, last night.” John finished a little quieter than he ever was since you’ve known him. Looking under your napkin, you found a neatly folded multitude of papers addressed to you, your name written in loopy and gorgeous cursive you could never mimick.

“We’ll leave you to your breakfast, Miss Y/N. I hope you enjoy. George spoke to you, then directing to John that it was time to leave you alone. “Come along, John. We need to make sure Gilbert and Alexander don’t set anything on fire.” The comment from the Virginian caused both John and yourself to snort, the memory of George’s arrival to 2017 flashing through your minds.

“That’s rich coming from you, Georgie!” George’s face changed instantly, you not realizing why until -oh. You called him Georgie, which you used during college when discussing the famous Virginian with close friends. But his face wasn’t contorted into one of disgust or contempt like you thought it would. After all, George was famous for not liking people to be too familiar with him.

But he looked jovial, like a man who just won the lottery.

“Uh, I’m sorry, you can go-”  
“You gave me a nickname.”

He spoke uncertainly, as if the words will float out of his ears and through the window at a moment’s notice. “I… I don’t know what to say,” His eyes were beginning to water… was he about to cry?

“Oh, come here,” You set your tray of food beside you you on your bed, getting up to comfort the emotional man before you. This was one of the sweetest things you’ve ever seen in your entire life, and that’s saying a lot.

There were events like Gilbert singing Yankee Doodle, Alex playing with little kids in the park, John crying at The Notebook (to be honest, everyone cried at that -John was just more theatrical about it, not to mention wasted soon after), and the breakfast before you that vied for the title of “Sweetest Thing Done For You By Someone Two Centuries Older Than You” but this… this was so pure.

You didn’t think adding a vowel to the retired general’s name would carry such a heavy weight, but it meant everything to to the man whose head was now in your shoulder. You were rubbing small circles on his back because he was so vulnerable in that moment, he needed comforting and assurance.

Knowing plenty about his childhood, he never was granted consoling from his mother or someone otherwise in this manner. It deeply saddened you, a Piscean without a nurturing environment. You would have pondered the effects his burdened early years had on him, but damn did George give excellent hugs.

John left, shutting the door behind him quietly. The Carolinian didn’t want to impose on such a vulnerable moment of George’s. When cornered with questions from the men downstairs about why George isn’t down here and whether you enjoyed the breakfast, he spoke little with heavy command: “Don’t; it is not my story to tell.”

At the somber tone, Alex’s words died on his tongue. Gilbert ceased the pestering about where they were or what they were doing. James merely nodded at John, focusing his attention back on the venus flytrap video pulled up on what he recently learned was a laptop. ‘Thomas would have loved to have owned one of these,’ James thought to himself briefly. ‘He would have bought every store out if he could.’

___________________________________________________________________

George believed himself to be impotent in this moment, to keep it brief. Here he was, the first President of the United States, a man who led an entire army across a freezing river on Christmas Day to attack the Hessians in broad daylight, whimpering into the shoulder of a young woman because of a vowel.

A vowel.

This was the same man that rode on horseback through bloody warfields with bullets piercing his coat, the one who led an entire country from tyranny to an almost opulent state of being in merely years. Now this was the man snivelling into the shoulder of a woman from a different century because she called him an affectionate name.

Wanting to get a grip on himself, he stepped away from you. “I’m very, truly sorry, Miss Y/N. I don’t know what came over me. I-”

“George, listen to me,” you interject, knowing that he was about to go on a self-berating rant about keeping his emotions in check and how inappropriate this was. You had no time for that.

“George, you mean so much to me, and so do the others. You live in a part of my heart I didn’t even know existed until John triggered my house alarm system. Until you set my grill on fire. Until Alex destroyed the garden, and until Gilbert cowered in fear from the toilet.” That did not come out the way you thought it would, not by a long shot. But he’ll understand.

“This has been the craziest thing for you to deal with, and this has been crazy for everyone else, myself included. But you know what?” You take his hands in your smaller ones, his eyes meeting yours. “I wouldn’t trade this for anything. Nothing in the world is worth more than the time I have spent with you all. Not a damned thing.”

Your words had the desired effect. He nodded, sniffling again to fix his nose. You lead him to your master bathroom -which none of them has ever been in- to clean off. “Go clean your face and I’ll share these waffles with you, okay?” Wiping one last tear, he replied: “Okay.”

__________________________________________________________________________

While George was cleaning himself up, you decided to read the note left from Alex. ‘I may regret this,’ you thought. ‘But when will I ever be able to say that Alexander Hamilton wrote an apology letter? One addressed to me, of all people?’ With these thoughts in mind, your eyes pore over fourteen pages of Hamiltonian rhetoric with plenty of commas, tangents, and several words you had to Google; all in all, an authentic Hamiltonian document complete with his initials at the bottom.

George had returned from your bathroom at page six and sat by the foot of the bed, but waited until you completed reading the entire letter to speak. “Do you really want to share your waffles, Miss Y/N? I know how delectable they are.” Smiling a faintly wicked smile, you run your finger across the chocolate drizzle and with a “boop,” you smear some on the tip of his nose. “Does that answer your question, Georgie?”

He face was shocked for a moment, but then he laughed heartily as he followed your example with an accompanying “boop” of his own. “I believe it does.”


	11. The Beginning Of The End... Of Your Sanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boredom leads to a trip inside of a storage closet... and the beginning of your patience being tested more than it has in weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR ALL OF THE LOVE YOU'VE GIVEN ME FOR THIS SERIES!!! I HOPE YOU ENJOY!!!

By the time George had arrived, you had used too many vacation days for your coworkers not to raise eyebrows at your extended absence. From that point, you decided to teach them how to fend for themselves; this included how to use a microwave (and to not get scared of the beep), how to wash clothes, and how to work Netflix and your laptop. You also bought a flip phone for them all to use if they need to call you.

Your crash course paid off, the others doing some of the heavy work of teaching the rest how to do things as they showed up. It also allowed you to go to work without worrying about them too much.

“Mr. Madison,” You greet the newest member of your all-American family as you and George returned downstairs after your breakfast, dishes in hand. “I’m glad to see you haven’t destroyed anything.” He was perplexed, his face like a lost puppy. “Why would I do that?”

Oh my god. “Just ask Alex and George, they’ll be able to tell you,” you made sure to say this with a laugh and a smile to let them know you weren’t throwing shade but making a joke. “My name is Y/N Y/L/N. I work for an agency that aids people and their lawyers in reading the jury in order to get the best possible results for the client.”

You never went into details about what exactly you did with the rest of your revolutionaries, but now was as good a time as any. “We get a list of the potential jurors, and using modern technology, we narrow down what type of personalities we need on the jury to get us to win.”

They were so intrigued you had to go on. “Once that is done, we find people who mirror those mannerisms. Those are the mirror jurors whose reactions we use to figure out how the real jury views the case.”

“Wait, wouldn’t that be cheating?” “Not to mention illegal.” “I find it interesting. Please, go on.” “What do you do for him?” “Yeah, don’t tell me you’re the one breaking the law here.”

Mixed reactions, but pretty good overall. “I help prepare witnesses for the experience of being on the stand as well as occasionally filling in as their lawyer if they didn’t have one already.”

Alex was all over it now. “You’re a lawyer?!” His shout was unpredictable. At the revelation, he pulled you towards him and began spitting words at you faster than you could keep track. The others appeared variants of amused and confused, but none made an attempt to save you from Alex’s bombarding.

“Alex, slow down a minute!” Needless to say, he didn’t.

It took over ten minutes to get him to calm down, but once he was, you found a little peace… for about ten minutes.

After Alex had assaulted James -and you accidentally- the night before, the men had forced them to reconcile their differences -with supervision. When you were told of the events that occurred after you were taken to bed by John, you considered it couples’ therapy. It was an amusing thought that the two chief writers of The Federalist were now having to settle their differences via therapy overwatched by three other men that for the most part, were their colleagues or their boss.

It was even better when you were told that afterwards, they hugged and a conclusion was brought about: blame Jefferson for everything. It became a joke amongst the men you understood with only secondhand knowledge.

You were fixing a quick lunch for them when you overheard a conversation from the living room.

“I’m bored.” “Go bother John or something, or tell off someone you don’t even know.” “But James!” Alexander drew the ‘a’ sound out in a manner that reminded you of a petulant child, letting out a small laugh.

“The last time I had bothered John, he said some very profane things about what he would do with his foot the next time I did that.” “Well that isn’t my problem, Alexander.”

Despite how entertaining this was to listen in on, you didn’t think the others could last as long with Alex complaining. You had an idea but no clue what the response to it would be.

“Boys, I have a suggestion to cure Alex’s boredom.” This got the attention of both men. “I used to have my nephews and niece live with me here, and I may be able to find one of their old gaming systems so you can be occupied.”

Leaving the room, you went to the room George and Gilbert shared and dived into the closet. Not literally, of course, but you might as well have. There were so many boxes that you shoved in here years ago once your brother’s kids moved out.

After ten minutes of looking, “Aha! I found it!” It was a silver PlayStation 2 with dozens of games and controllers inside. Looking right behind where that box was dredged up from, you hit the jackpot. Two wireless Guitar Hero guitars with the dongle taped onto the back where they couldn’t get lost.

“Boys, get ready to rock!”


	12. Music Isn't That Kind Of Weapon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's dinnertime, and you arrive to a screaming addition to your all-American family wielding a Guitar Hero guitar at the man who used to work on the same staff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO!!! MUCH!!! LOVE!!! THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE POSITIVE FEEDBACK EVERYONE!!!  
> So a lot of things have happened with me recently: I dyed my hair BLUE (well, navy) and after going to a fishery center (they are really fun) I bought a stuffed otter & a stuffed snake.  
> The otter's name is Benedict Otterbatch.  
> The snake's name is Thomas Jefferson. (there are snakes hissing in the background of What'd I Miss just fyi)  
> AND LAST THING!!!!! Alex=BOLD; George=BOTH; James=ITALIC (NOT COUNTING LYRICS)

_“Mommy's alright_  
_Daddy's alright_  
_They just seem a little weird_  
_Surrender_  
_Surrender_  
_But don't give yourself away”_

__________________________________

 _ **“Bloody hell! My streak disappeared!”**_  
**“Eat my whammy bar, old man!”**  
“Language, gentlemen!”  
**“Says who?”**  
“Says the guy about to play against George. You’d see you’re about to lose if you weren’t too busy telling me off.”  
**“Shit! I can’t catch back up!”**  
_**“Ha! That’ll teach you to call me old, son! Who’s next?”**_ “I called dibs on playing after Alex at the start of the round, so me.”  
**_“Alright, but I’m going to pick the song.”_**  
“Deal.”

_FOUR HOURS EARLIER_

“Wait, so you have to hold down the colored button and press this black lever down at the same time?” John questions, one of the guitars in hand. Gilbert was examining the other, occasionally moving it too quick and causing James and George to have to bob and weave to keep from getting whacked. 

“Yep, as soon as the colored gem rolls across the screen. Here, let me show you.” John hands you the guitar as you turn the console on. Skipping the intro -they can watch it later, you reasoned- you selected the ‘Medium’ difficulty and, after choosing Jessica by the Allman Brothers, you school them in the art of rocking it. 

Their mouths were open in awe as you expertly strummed two notes at once, hit insane fret orders with ease, and even used you pinky for the blue notes.

“We’re supposed to do that?” Alex, as well as every other man in the living room, were incredulous. “After you each take the tutorials course, it will take a bit, but yes. You will eventually learn how to do that.”

They all seemed to ponder the feasibility of the feat momentarily, then Alex spoke for them all with a simple question. “What are you waiting for? Get us to the tutorials!”

This is how you were now cooking a supper of lasagna for the men who haven’t left the living room in hours. George lost his reining championship title after James kicked some tail on Heart-Shaped Box. No one saw that coming, but hey, anything for entertainment purposes. And dear Chuck, how entertaining this was.

 

{{{{{ CODE: John=ITALIC; Gilly=BOLD; James=NONE}}}}} 

“We are not playing Iron Man again! I am so tired of that song!”  
_“You’re only mad because John beat you at it a couple hours ago.”_  
**“Seriously though, how do you miss one of the easiest notes in the entire song?”**  
"It's called 'Alex cheated by poking my side several times throughout the song' in case you forgot."  
_“Well how about Rock You Like A Hurricane?”_

The men agreed to the song selection and began to play.

You enjoyed hearing the sounds of civilization in your home after it being so quiet for so long; the arrival of the Founders was something you could never imagine being such a fulfilling addition to your life.

“Boys! Lasagna’s ready!” Your shout followed the sound of the guitars clattering to the ground -not before the game was paused- and pounding footsteps towards the kitchen.

 

_________________________________________________

 

**UNKNOWN POV:**

_The last thing I remembered, before appearing in this strange room, was black._

_Where am I?  
What happened?_

_With a start, I realize I just died. Is this what heaven is supposed to be? Maybe Jesus really was the son of God and now I’m stuck here for all eternity because God felt like spiting me._

_Maybe it’s because of my ram and that little boy…  
That couldn’t be it. The kid could have grown up to be a Federalist, so I think I did the world a favor. The less Federalists that existed in the world, the better._

_Well maybe it’s-_

_What is that thing?_

_I eyed this peculiar device, unsure of what purpose it served. It had many colors far too bright for -what is this material? It’s solid yet smooth, and the same colors I wouldn’t have been surprised to see Hamilton wear to a meeting way back when._

_I can’t hear anything, if there is even anything to hear in this strange place. There is nothing but silence. Perplexed, I pick up the peculiar object gingerly, unsure what could happen if I did the wrong thing here._

_“HERE I AM ROCK YOU LIKE A HURRICANE HERE I AM ROCK YOU LIKE A HURRICANE”_

_I heard the voice emit from what I believed to be the cosmos. It was paired with an unfamiliar screeching of something unknown. Above all, I heard my own scream of fear._

_Then there were more people flooding in the room, shouting various things I couldn’t bring myself to interpret as I began to see red, wielding the unknown device at anyone who dared approach me. They were demons, sent to torment me for all eternity. They took the faces of those I know for better effect, my brain registering the faces but not letting my guard down._

One of them was unfamiliar to me, but the rest of my former colleagues seemed to regard him as one of their own.

_In all honesty, I didn’t mind the satisfaction of defending myself -and violently thwacking- a demon version of Hamilton. This is starting to become less of a punishment the longer I’m here! There’s only one face I didn’t recognize, and she broke through the crowd of faces of my past with steel determination. I was too busy watching her that I didn’t put up a fight when she was close enough to snatch my weapon from me._

_Then she begins to shout._

_“Thomas Jefferson, are you insane?!” Who is she and how does she know my name?! “On second thought, don’t answer that.” Okay, who does this woman think she is? I will not tolerate this kind of attitude! “James! Gilbert! Take care of him upstairs while George and I keep Alexander down here!”_

_I recognize James and Gilbert cautiously approaching me. What do they think I am, fragile?_

_Hamilton is flailing his arms, attempting to break free from the hold of the man I don’t know. The said man breaks free for a moment only to be restrained by the woman who is surprisingly holding her own._

_“Alex! Can you not hit me in the face again?! I’m getting tired of it!” Again? It seems Hamilton has lowered his moral standards as a demon. As if it made a difference whether he was a demon or not. Hamilton was still thrashing while two demons wearing the faces of his friends attempted to guide him upstairs._

_“Thomas bloody Jefferson! Follow those two if you don’t want your head on a stick dammit!” The woman’s focus is back on Hamilton, her shouting “OW! THAT WAS MY SHIN YOU JUST KICKED!”_

_I decide to follow the two demon-men-things upstairs into the unknown. It’s better than the wrath of the woman about to annihilate Hamilton for kicking her shin. They finally emerge into a room with two beds and clothes strewn lightly over the floor._

_Demon-James spoke up first. “Thomas, my friend…” He was quiet at first, searching for the words. “It’s good to see you.” I’m brought into a hug before I could register it was coming. Demon-Gilbert hung back, letting Demon-James have his moment._

_“James, where am I?” James tenses momentarily._

_“The future. It’s 2017, New York City. And the woman downstairs is not happy with you, and with good reason.”_

__


End file.
